‘You've done very well but I'll carry these into the living room,’ she said finally. ‘Don't expect to be expert at once.’
She followed him as he found his way back to the living room by trailing his fingers along the wall. He made his way back to the rocking chair, then turned towards her. ‘I'd fetch you a chair,’ he said, ‘but –’
‘I can carry my own chair, thank you. And I'll put our mugs on this coffee table between us.’ And then they were sitting facing each other.
‘The first two things we usually teach are trailing – that's using your fingers to navigate – and making a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘You seem to have done both yourself. You even find your way back to your favourite chair.’
‘I usually sit in this chair when I come home,’ he said. ‘I have a cup of coffee and I … I use my telescope to look at the passing ships or the Welsh hills.’
He nodded towards a corner. There she saw a large brass telescope, now neatly folded away. ‘On a good clear day you can see right over to Snowdonia.’
‘Well, you can't see much now, it's too misty.’ She didn't want him to think about what he couldn't do.
She also thought she could see lines of fatigue in his face, but knew she would never get him to admit to being tired. For a while they would just chat gently.
‘I love your flat. It's so definitely masculine – this could never be a woman's room.’
‘I grew up in women's rooms,’ he said enigmatically, ‘so now I don't have a single knick-knack. Apart from my Diana, that is.’
‘Diana?’
‘A little bronze – it's over on the bookshelf behind you. Go and have a look if you like.’
She did. A sculpture of a naked goddess running with her dogs. She was glorious, the essence of female beauty.
‘Why is she so shiny?’ Tania asked. ‘Do you polish her?’
‘No, I hold her. Sometimes I think I can feel her beauty through my hands.’
Then he obviously decided he had given away too much.
‘Let's be practical,’ he said. ‘Come and tell me what I can expect.’
Tania returned to her seat. ‘I gather there's a chance you might regain your sight.’
‘A chance, no more. Charles Forsythe the neurologist is a friend of mine. He says it's possible. I asked him what the odds were but he wouldn't say.’ Jonathan grinned. ‘These doctors are very hard to pin down, aren't they? But perhaps the chances are fifty-fifty, or sixty-forty, or even seventy-thirty?’
‘In whose favour?’
‘No one can tell. But I've decided to act as if my sight has gone permanently. That way I can't be disappointed.’
‘An interesting reaction,’ she said carefully. ‘I think you're probably very wise.’
‘Tell me how people normally cope. I want to know what's normal.’
‘There is no normal. Coping is as various as people are. But, remember, it's no sign of weakness to accept worry, fear, and so on. If you accept those as normal, you'll come through them faster.’
‘I see. But if I feel fear, Miss Richardson, I want to keep it to myself.’
She sighed. ‘Losing your sight is like losing a friend or relation. It's like bereavement. There are stages you have to go through before you come to full acceptance, stages like horror and anger and even guilt and self-reproach. A lot of people just feel numb – there's nothing they can do. And it's almost impossible to avoid this process.’
‘So that's what I have to look forward to?’
‘You are a human being, Dr. Knight.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Not much of a prospect, is it?’ he asked with a grin, and she found herself smiling back. When he smiled he was a different person.
‘Let's go through the practical arrangements for the next few days,’ she said. ‘And I'd like to check heating and so on. Are there any fires or anything like that? Could you burn yourself?’
In fact, there was little she had to do. Having money certainly made things easier. Every morning he had a lady in to clean and do his washing and ironing.
She had offered to stay a further hour so she would cook a breakfast, make sandwiches or something for later. Friends would certainly drop in – Joe had said he would be there every day. If he wanted, he could order take-away meals on the phone – there was a very good service close by and he already had an account there.
‘You've worked out how to use the phone. I want you to memorise one more number,’ she said. ‘This is a helpline – any time, day or night, you're in trouble, call.’
‘That'll be handy to know,’ he said seriously. ‘Now, when will you be coming back?’
She thought of her schedule – she could reorganise a few things and …
‘Tomorrow afternoon?’ she asked.
‘I’m looking forward to it. It was a lie she had to tell. You can teach me how to cook.’
Then he paused and said, ‘Looking forward isn't the right phrase, is it?’
Tania thought for a moment that his guard slipped; that he had revealed something of the pain he must feel. It made him so much more human.
‘Looking forward will do fine,’ she said. ‘Incidentally if you want, my name is Tania.’
‘It’s a good name. I'm Jonathan. But I don't answer to John or Johnny.’
It was time for her to go. She had done all that was possible in a first visit. She stood and turned her head, and as she did so he reached out his hand to shake hers. His hand touched her breast, and he instantly withdrew.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Don't worry, it happens all the time.’ Then she shook his hand and left.
It had only been the gentlest of touches – as she'd said, the kind of accident that happened all the time.
But she thought she could still feel where he had touched her. Why was her pulse racing? Why was this man affecting her so much?
Chapter Two
TANIA'S first visit the next day was very different.
Ronnie Slack was forty, and he had diabetic retinopathy. Some twenty years ago he had become diabetic, and then, one of the sad possibilities of the disease, tiny blood vessels had started to leak in his retinas. In spite of laser treatment, Ronnie's sight had deteriorated. Eventually he'd haemorrhaged and a year ago he'd become completely blind. Some people would have regarded this as a challenge, and met it as best they could. Ronnie had just given way.
He was sitting, half-undressed, on his dirty settee.
Loud pop music blared out from his radio – Ronnie spent hours listening to Radio One. Behind him she could see the kitchen, carefully planned and installed to be blind-person friendly. She had spent hours – days – trying to show Ronnie how to use it. Now the sink was piled high with dirty dishes, probably from the last four or five meals.
‘You haven't washed up, Ronnie,’ she said. She tried to keep her tone light. It wasn't her place to judge.
‘Didn't feel like it. I don't feel too good, Tania. D'you mind doing it yourself?’ She ignored this suggestion. ‘We had your GP out to see you last week. He said you were fine, but that you needed more exercise and possibly less food.’
‘Eating is the only real pleasure I get these days,’ Ronnie said glumly. ‘You wouldn't want to stop that, would you?’
A surprising number of her clients never did feel sorry for themselves. Ronnie wasn't one of them. Again she reminded herself that it wasn't her place to judge. She could only imagine what being blind must be like.
‘Let's start with the washing-up, shall we?’ she said. ‘You do it and I'll stand here and watch. It would be a lot easier if you washed up after every meal, though.’
After much persuasion she got Ronnie to do the washing-up. He dropped and broke a couple of things, she suspected half on purpose. But it got done – and then he expected to be praised. Fair enough.
‘Why don't you come to the day centre, Ronnie?’ she asked then. ‘We can arrange for you to be picked up, you get a nice meal and there are all sorts of activities
there.’
‘You know I went there once and I didn't like it. Lot of stuck-up people there who think they're better than me.’
‘I'm sure that's not true. Why not give it another go? If you like, I'll come and go with you for the first visit, introduce you to a few people. What about next Friday?’ Graciously, Ronnie said that he'd think about it. She was to call in and he'd give her his decision.
‘You'll really enjoy it Ronnie, I promise,’ she said. Then she left. She had done what she could.
Her next visit was quite different. Mrs Olive Murphy still lived in the little terraced house she'd moved into when she'd got married, fifty years before. It was spotless. The home help who'd been allocated to Olive had said that she was asked to make sure the front of the house was all right – the tiny flower-bed had to be weeded, the windows cleaned, the front step scrubbed. Appearances were important to Olive – they always had been.
Tania sat in the front room, waiting for her tea to be brought. Olive came in with a tray, complete with white tray cloth. There were two cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl, a teapot with a cosy, all in a pretty blue and white pattern. There were also a plate of biscuits, carefully arranged, and two side plates. Olive believed in standards.
They talked about the weather, the baby born next door (brought in so Olive could hold her), what Olive had heard on the news. This was all absolutely necessary. Tania couldn't get down to business until the social conventions had been observed. But finally … ‘You're still losing weight,’ Tania said. ‘You look a bit pale and you haven't shaken off that nasty cough. What did the doctor say, Olive?’
‘He wants me to go into hospital for tests,’ snapped Olive. ‘And I told him there was no way I'd do that. Look at what happened to George!’
Tania knew what had happened to George. She had been told several times. Twenty years ago, before she'd started to lose her sight, George had gone into hospital for the most minor of operations. And he'd died.
‘Just an adverse reaction to the anaesthetic,’ the GP had told Tania. ‘It couldn't have been expected and he got the very best of treatment. Sometimes it just happens, and we're all very sorry.’
But since that time Olive had maintained a deep suspicion of hospitals. ‘I'd rather die in my own bed than go to one of them places,’ she had told Tania.
‘There's no need for you to die just yet,’ Tania had said. Now she had to try again. ‘I really do think you ought to consider it,’ she said. ‘I'd come with you, see you were settled all right.’
Olive's lips thinned. ‘I'm not going to hospital,’ she said.
The Golden Rule again. You could ask, suggest, try to persuade. But you couldn't make up other people's minds. ‘Well, think about it,’ Tania said.
She went back to her office before going on her afternoon call to Jonathan, and after working found time to call in at her little bedroom in the school to have a quick wash and put on fresh make-up. And some scent. She found some people responded better when she wore scent. Then she set off, quite early.
It was another very hot day. As she drove, the car window down, she thought about her next appointment. She was looking forward to it. Jonathan represented a challenge. But, then, so did all her work.
She was an honest woman. She had to admit to herself that she was looking forward to seeing Jonathan again because she was attracted to him. She liked his voice, his appearance, his sense of humour. The shock when she'd seen him for the first time was with her still.
Irritably, she reached and turned on her radio, turned it on loud. She had to think of something else. Jonathan Knight was a client, nothing more. Men of his kind weren't for her. He was tough, arrogant, masculine. Just the opposite of the kind of man she liked. She had to face it; Jonathan was the kind of man who could hurt her very easily if she let him. Then, more irritated than ever, she turned the radio even louder.
Jonathan had a guest when she arrived, a short, grey-haired, older man with lively blue eyes. 'This is my good friend, Charles Forsythe,' Jonathan said. ‘He's the neurosurgeon who will operate on me.’
Charles shook her hand. ‘I'll leave you in peace in a minute,’ he said. ‘Just finish my tea first. May I pour you a cup?’
So she sat with the two men to chat. After all, she was early.
‘Charles has been describing the operation I'll have,’ Jonathan said. ‘I wanted to know everything about it.’
‘Some of my clients don't want to know anything,’ Tania said. ‘They leave everything up to the professionals. It's as if not knowing anything means that nothing can go wrong. Others – like you – want to know everything. Then they're master of the situation. If things do go wrong, they know why.’
Charles smiled at her. ‘That's a very exact description of how my patients behave,’ he said. ‘You're a very shrewd young lady. Now, I'll do some exploratory examinations on Jonathan in a couple of weeks. Computerised tomography, then magnetic resonance imaging. We've done them already, of course, and I don't expect to find anything I don't already know.
Then a few weeks after that, we'll try to put things right. It'll be an all-or-nothing operation. Not a difficult one either, a junior surgeon could do it. We get into the skull and hope to find something causing pressure.
If we're in luck, all will be well. Prayer is as much use as a surgeon's skill, because all we can do is remove pressure on the visual cortex or the optic nerve. If the neural pathways are severed or interrupted, there's nothing a surgeon can do. So Jonathan will either regain his sight at once – or he'll be blind for life.’
It was a bleak forecast – but she saw that this was the way Jonathan liked to hear things. ‘I know my chances now,’ he said.
‘Now, Charles, tell me what the hospital gossip is. You were later than you said you'd be.’
Tania saw that Charles was a little uncomfortable. ‘I had one of those cases,’ he said. ‘A young girl – nine years old. We didn't know exactly what we'd find until we opened her up. It started as a spinal case, but we found a tumour that had spread and spread and we had to chase it all over her lower body. With any luck we'll have taken it all out – but the poor thing will have a body that's a mass of scars.’
Tania couldn't help it. She said nothing but Jonathan noticed her sudden gasp of horror. ‘Has that upset you, Tania?’ he asked.
‘It's just that nine years old seems very young,’ she said. ‘She has to grow up. When she's older, when she wants to wear her first bikini, she'll be desolate.’
‘When she's a bit better I'm going to get our plastics man to look at her,’ Charles said. ‘We won't just abandon her, Tania.’
When Charles had gone she started to teach Jonathan a little about cooking. First there was the arrangement of things he might need – how to navigate through his fridge-freezer and his cupboards, how to arrange the pans he might need. He had a gas hob and an electric oven, and she showed him how to deal with them.
Usually she took these steps very slowly. Her clients needed to learn practical skills, but at the same time they had to come to terms with their disability.
It wasn't uncommon for people to appear to be doing very well, and then, without notice, burst into tears.
But Jonathan wasn't like that. He appeared to be able to thrust his feelings behind him, to concentrate on the matter in hand. She thought there was something almost inhuman about his concentration. He listened, he tried, and when he made a mistake he repeated the action till he got things right And so he learned.
He told her he liked boiled eggs. She watched as he took two eggs from the fridge, put them in a pan and covered them with water, waited until he could tell that the water was boiling and then set a timer to ring after three and a half minutes. Then he put bread in the toaster and buttered it when it sprang up.
‘Would you care to join me in toast and a boiled egg, Miss Richardson?’ he invited.
‘I'd be delighted, Dr. Knight’ she replied. They sat at the table in the kitchen and ate thei
r eggs.
He told her he preferred cafetiere coffee. She was showing him how to pour in exactly the right amount of boiling water without scalding himself when there was a ringing sound from the living room.
‘My mobile! I left it on the coffee table. I'll get it, Tania.’
He stood, felt his way to the door, then strode purposefully forward before she could warn him. A half-second later there was a crash and the sound of a body hitting the floor.
‘Jonathan!’ She found him stretched full length on the floor, an overturned chair showing what he had fallen over.
Quickly she knelt reached for his head to –
‘Don't touch me!’
She leapt backwards. He didn't need to shout at her! She watched him push himself onto his hands and knees and stand upright. She saw by the white face that he was in pain, possibly also angry – very angry. She remembered Joe had told her that he had developed a temper.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Don't offer me sympathy – it was my own fault. I moved too quickly. Sometimes I just forget things. You'd think that after two weeks of blindness I'd be getting used to it.’
The mobile phone was still ringing. She saw him turn towards the sound, but noticed that there were two more chairs and the coffee table in his way.
‘I'll get it,’ she said. ‘For the moment you just move very slowly and try to work out what's in your way.’
For a moment she thought that he was going to refuse. But then he cautiously felt forward, and she ran to where she could see the mobile phone – on the bookshelf. She took it to him.
‘Hello … Joe … Mrs Cullen. Yes, of course I remember her, the lady with … she was given what?’
It was nothing to do with her, she wasn't to blame, but Tania cringed at the anger in Jonathan's voice.
The Consultant's Recovery Page 3